


Discomposure

by voxanonymi (spasmodicIntrigue)



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Angst, Blood and Injury, Dreams vs. Reality, Elemental Magic, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Mindfuck, Noctis-centric, Paranoia, horror themes, i guess, in a big way, this is proving VERY difficult to tag and describe good god
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-16
Updated: 2018-03-16
Packaged: 2019-04-01 04:04:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13990089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spasmodicIntrigue/pseuds/voxanonymi
Summary: Breathing deeply didn’t seem to be helping at all. Noctis realised too late that the oxygen he was taking in was fanning the flames of the great fire rising up inside him. He feared to speak for fear the flames would fire out of his mouth and douse the apartment with the great destructive power of the massless destroyer—fire. Pure energy.Noctis sure as hell didn't sign up for this rollercoaster, and he wants off before he loses his lunch or his mind. Except, he might have already lost the latter—either he has, or the entire world has.





	Discomposure

**Author's Note:**

> If I had to pick a shape to describe this fic, I'd pick a scribble. I had a lot of fun writing this scribble, because it's always fun coming up with new and creative ways to torture poor Noct. I hope some of the fun I had translates to enjoyment for you, dear reader!

He wasn’t really sure what was wrong with him. Some unidentifiable affliction, possibly magical, possibly related to his lineage, possibly not. A sour band of pain from temple to temple, arching across his forehead and curling around his eyes. Stiffness in his left shoulder, pain if he moved it too suddenly. Fatigue. Heaviness. It probably wouldn’t be too difficult to find out what was bothering him, if he bothered to tell anyone that there was anything to be bothered about.

Bother. What a strange word. Can’t be bothered. Don’t want to bother you. What a bother. Bother. One letter difference from ‘brother’.

“A brother is the _biggest_ bother.” Sounded like something Iris would say.

Wordplay. Wasn’t really Noctis’ thing, but he could appreciate it well enough.

Enough. Yeah. He’d just about had enough with this unidentifiable affliction.

 

“You ever think about how weird it is?”

Prompto actually looked over, away from his camera’s viewfinder. “You wha’?”

“Nature throws something like snow at us, and instead of cowering away in our caves like evolution intended, we… make things out of it.”

“Huh.” Prompto blinked, turning back to the rows of snow sculptures alongside the park’s main walkway. “I guess. Maybe it’s weird. But isn’t that part of evolution, too?”

“…Being weird?”

“No! Overcoming threats to the point where we can… I dunno, make something fun out of them! Art!” He bent down and gathered a handful of snow in a gloved hand. “Snow can be dangerous, but once you take away the danger, it can be beautiful.” He lobbed the handful at Noctis, who flinched as the snowball hit him in the chest, cascading down the front of his coat.

“Profound,” he deadpanned.

“Whatever, man. You started it.” Prompto returned his attention to taking pictures of the sculptures. “Maybe _you’re_ the weird thing here.”

He said it in a teasing way, but Noctis thought Prompto was probably right. He _was_ the weirdest thing here. Of the hundreds of people braving the cold and snow in this park, today, in downtown Insomnia, participating in or spectating the snow-sculpture building competition, who of them were innately able to harness the elements? Who among them were connected, by DNA or something, to the very soul of the planet—the Crystal, a giant rock with giant power/ None but Noctis. It was bizarre, but it was reality. Supposedly.

Noctis’ head hurt. He ignored it. He closed his eyes and concentrated—he _felt_ the snow all around him, not just in the fact that it was so cold he could barely feel his fingers and toes (even through the layers of clothing: socks, socks, shoes; gloves, pockets). He felt it as a smooth, slippery energy, so potent that he didn’t need eyes to see it. In his mind’s eye, he stood in an expanse of barely-there blue. It was far weaker than the concentrated energy deposits. Even so, it was the purest form of one of the core elements, and surely purity carried its own power.

With his eyes closed, the entire city was reduced to a snowfield. Endless and uninterrupted. Noctis wondered if he could actually draw power like this—from the whole city at once. Wouldn’t that be a feat? He wondered how it would feel. Would it be exhausting, to pull from such a stretched and spread-out force? Or would it be easier, without the intensity of the energy capsules he was used to? He sort of liked the idea. Of taking a piece of this day’s peaceful energy for himself. Peaceful, because wasn’t everyone just out here enjoying themselves? Having a day off, fun in the snow? Yet, snow wasn’t supposed to be fun. Not by design. It was a force. And whatever Noctis took of it would be used as such—a force. Something violent.

Suddenly he didn’t like the idea quite so much. It seemed like a bastardisation. It seemed distastefully ironic.

Suddenly he was hyper-aware of how cold he really was.

He felt the collective gasp before he heard it. His eyes flicked open and for a moment the barely-there mindscape seemed superimposed over the snow-covered park. A faint blue radiance, a just-perceptible quiver.

“Whoa,” Prompto breathed beside him, and Noctis realised: everyone else could see the radiance, too.

Something twisted deep in his gut. The glow faded. The quiver hastened. The snow shook as if with cold—ha! The snow realising its own coldness; finally something to rival Noctis’ weirdness. Of course, he knew it was because of him.

The sculptures collapsed. The sculptors and spectators cried out in frustration, disappointment, shock, even glee—the innate joy of destruction (Noctis knew it well).

He stumbled back. It was enough to snap Prompto out of his own shock and glance back at him, the tilt of his eyebrows shifting from confusion to concern in the space of a breath.

“You okay?”

“I think I’m gonna go home,” Noctis said, turning away from the crime scene. Beautiful sculptures, reduced to mounds of snow once more. That was how it was supposed to be, wasn’t it? So why did it feel so rotten?

“I’ll come with you,” Prompto insisted. “Guess there’s… nothing more to take photos of here.”

As they left the park, Noctis expected to be stopped. Expected someone to recognise him, know what he was capable of, put two and two together and realise what had happened. Well, he figured they probably wouldn’t openly mob him for risk of being arrested for high treason. But Noctis fully anticipated waking up the next morning to news reports all about how the Crown Prince had single-handedly ruined the annual snow sculpture competition.

He wasn’t even sure what he’d done

His head throbbed, and the constant shiver running through him didn’t help.

Prompto jumped up and down and stood close at Noctis’ side as they waited to cross the street. “It is _freezing_ ,” he remarked.

Noctis hummed agreement, rolling his left shoulder to try get some feeling back into it—the only feeling that returned, however, was pain. He quickly gave up on that endeavour.

Prompto stopped jumping, giving Noctis a peculiar look. “So, uh… know anything about what happened back there?”

Of course _Prompto_ would know it wasn’t a coincidence. Noctis pointedly stared at spot on the pavement a few inches in front of his feet. “Yeah, but no.”

“Uhuh.” Prompto stared at him a few seconds longer, before the crossing light turned green and they both diverted their gazes from their respective fixed points. “Hey, can I warm up at your place for a bit? Y’know, since it’s closer?”

“Sure,” said Noctis. “As long as you like.”

 

The only thing more miserable than survival training was survival training in a thunderstorm. Gladio, for his part, seemed to love it. They sat in the mouth of the tent watching rigid strings of light fly across the sky, concentrated at fixed points beyond the treetops where Noctis knew there were lightning rods installed for occasions such as these.

Rain thundered down upon them, almost as loud as the intermittent rolls of thunder. The little visor at the front of the tent barely kept it out, and Noctis wondered why they were even bothering to keep out the rain. They were both already drenched from setting up the tent.

Noctis’ head throbbed and he was shivering and he was pretty sure that he was coming down with some horrible cold that would last a month. His throat was scratchy when he woke up this morning, but it wasn’t enough for Gladio to postpone the trip. Maybe it was nothing. All in his head. Maybe the headache was messing with his brain. Maybe his brain was messing with his headache—no, causing the headache. A neurological ache rather than inflamed blood vessels, or whatever normal headaches normally were.

He must have looked miserable. Gladio glanced at him, then clapped him on the back. “Come on, Noct. Cheer up! It could be a lot worse.” He practically had to shout to be heard over the watery tumult.

“Yeah,” Noctis said, “I could be soaking wet and stuck in a tent with a human bear. Oh, wait.”

“Very funny. You steal that one from Prompto?”

“Hell no. My jokes are way better than his.”

A fork of lighting struck a rod near to—maybe even _in_ —the nature reserve Gladio had chosen for their camping trip. An explosive clap of thunder followed half a second later, loud enough to make them both jump.

Noctis pounced on the opportunity. “Oh, scared of a little thunder, are you?”

“Grow up, you jumped too.”

“I don’t deny that, but I didn’t _want_ to come on this stupid trip.”

“It’s not stupid, Stupid. Knowing how to survive in the wilderness could save your life one day.”

“Yeah, because… wildlife is such a threat in the Citadel.”

Gladio rolled his eyes. He knew Noctis was just messing with him. It’s part of their ritual on these trips.

They sat there a little longer. Then Gladio said, “Come on. Better get to sleep.”

“Not the best environment for it,” Noctis said. He wasn’t just complaining for the sake of complaining: between the rain and the thunder, he truly wasn’t sure he’d be able to sleep. Too loud.

“You never know until you try,” Gladio insisted. He zipped up the tent entrance, which barely reduced the sound, and flopped backwards onto his side of the tent. Noctis crawled over to his own side, not even trying to hide his disgust about how damp everything was as he wormed his way into his sleeping bag.

“It could be worse, Princess,” Gladio reminded him again, leaning over to turn off the lamp. “Night.”

“Night,” Noctis muttered in reply, still fidgeting and trying to get comfortable.

The worst part about the rain was that they couldn’t have a fire. No fire not only meant no means to get dry, but also no means to cook—so they were forced to subsist off a dinner of cold smoked fish. Which was better than nothing, but worse than what they _could_ have had, and far worse than whatever Ignis might have whipped up if he’d stayed home.

As Noctis had suspected, the rain, thunder, and lightning were not conducive to easy sleep. Even for him. Truth was, Noctis was only good at falling asleep when he felt safe. He definitely didn’t feel safe when unrestrained electrical power was lighting up the walls of the tent every few seconds. Not to mention, none of it was good news for his continuing headache. He was really getting sick of the headache. Or the headache was making him sick. Or he was sick, therefore he was with headache. One or two or all of the above.

He kept his eyes closed and tried to clear his mind, relax his muscles. After a while he could hear Gladio’s even snores from the other side of the tent, another rumble to add to night’s out-of-tune orchestra. An orchestra sans conductor, it seemed; no instrument playing in time or in harmony with any other.

Every time he felt himself starting to slip away, another sharp crack of thunder jolted him back to awareness. Gladio was as ever unperturbed. _Probably can’t hear over his own snoring_ , Noctis thought bitterly.

After the third time this happened, he let out a frustrated puff of air and sat up. The storm didn’t seem like it was going to let up anytime soon, which most likely meant he wasn’t going to get to sleep anytime soon.

Careful not to make too much noise, he unzipped the tent flap just enough for him to squeeze out into the ozone-scented rain and wind. It was strangely soothing for his aching head, to just stand there in front of the tent and let the rain soak through every square inch of his physical being.

He stared out at the relentless bolts of lightning and wondered what would happen if one of those bolts hit _him_. Would it kill him, like it would any other person? Probably. But what if he was concentrating? What if he was actively focused on absorbing the power into himself? By that same token, could he, theoretically, _make_ the lightning hit him?

Only one way to find out. He closed his eyes and reached out towards the lightning, recoiling slightly when his mind found the strobe-like live wires of pure electricity. Trying to touch them, even mentally, was like falling for one of those joke pens that gave you an electric shock when you tried to click it—except high-powered; the kind that wasn’t legal to sell, but could probably be found for sale on some dodgy online store. His temples gave a sharp throb.

Noctis considered giving up, at that. Too dangerous, too painful. But his other alternative was going back into the tent, more soaked than ever, and lying motionless in his sleeping bag until either the storm ended or morning came—whichever came first. Lying in bed and being unable to sleep, with nothing to focus on but the pain in his head and the noise of the storm (and Gladio’s snoring) was about the most torturous thing Noctis could imagine. So he persisted, clenching his eyes shut and stretching his mind gingerly into range of the erratic forks of energy.

A crack of thunder like a bomb going off nearby, and something that felt like a large rock hit Noctis right in the middle of his forehead, knocking him flat on his back. As he fell, he felt a semi-painful tingling down his arms, a sharp stabbing in his left shoulder. He landed on the saturated ground with a wet squelch, and held his hands up to examine the glowing lines running down into his fingertips.

Huh. Interesting. The electricity was in his veins, its glow slowly fading. Noctis could feel the storm’s power inside him, but it was much less than he would have gotten from an energy capsule or deposit, and given that the pain in his head had gone from a soft five to a firm seven, he decided that it wasn’t a very efficient way to collect energy. Maybe good in a pinch, whatever that would entail. Maybe if someone tried to mug him during a storm, or… something.

The tent flap was ripped open, and Gladio loomed over him. “The hell are you doing?” he shouted over the ever-unrelenting rain.

“Experimenting,” Noctis said, holding up his still-glowing fingertips.

Gladio seemed at a loss for what to say or think. So, he just shrugged and offered Noctis a hand up—which he gladly accepted, though he had to hide his wince at the nauseating wave of pain in his head and shoulder as he was swiftly pulled upright.

“You scare me sometimes,” Gladio said thoughtfully, once they were back in the tent, practically flooding it with the sheer volume of water dripping off them both.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Noctis said, scrubbing tenderly at his hair with a damp t-shirt. His scalp felt hypersensitive.

“Not in a way that you should be proud of,” Gladio pointed out.

“Yet,” added Noctis.

 

Frequently to Noctis’ bewilderment and amusement was the fact that Ignis’ apartment had a fireplace.

Even though he saw Ignis every day, usually multiple times, except in exceptional circumstances, Noctis rarely visited Ignis’ apartment. It was usually Ignis who came to _Noctis’_ apartment. Ignis’ apartment, however, was in close proximity to one of the best arcades in Insomnia. Noctis sometimes dropped by on his way home from this arcade—especially on cold days, to warm up for a while. And to requisition a hot meal. And after-dinner coffee. By then it would usually be so late that Ignis wouldn’t let Noctis walk home, so he’d also get a free ride out of it.

Ignis may have been the master strategist, but Noctis wasn’t incapable of orchestrating his own master plans from time to time. Not that Ignis was unaware of the ploy—he was just obliging by nature.

“Why does your apartment have a fireplace?” Noctis asked, staring into the flames of said fireplace (luckily the fire was in its place, rather than some other place that _wasn’t_ a fire place).

“It came with the apartment,” said Ignis, setting Noctis’ sugar and cream-laden coffee down on the coffee table in front of him (now the coffee, too, was in its place, on its table). Ignis had at first refused to partake in Noctis’ “blasphemous dilution of a perfectly good brew.” But, that obliging nature had struck once again and he’d quickly come around.

“Sure, but there are more efficient forms of heating.”

Ignis sat down on the couch beside him with his own coffee, which was perhaps even blacker than Ebony. “Fireplaces have a certain rustic charm, I suppose. A homeliness.”

Noctis hummed. “I guess.”

Their conversation flickered and died, but neither minded, just sitting there on opposite ends of the couch, by the fireplace, sipping their coffees.

Fireplace. The word was funny, really. Part noun, part instructional manual. _This is where the fire goes_. It _was_ cosy, Noctis supposed. More so the closer you sat—Noctis’ end of the couch was the closer. Ignis didn’t have a TV or anything. Just two couches on either side of a coffee table, and a fireplace. The amount of seating was disproportionate to the number of guests Ignis ever had (usually only ever Noctis, and even then rarely). The level of personalisation in the apartment, meanwhile, was proportionate to the amount of time Ignis actually spent here—which was, thanks to Noctis, not all that much. Nights. For sleeping. Maybe an hour here or there during the day in-between running around after Noctis and duties for the Crownsguard. The apartment had come fully furnished, of course.

Fire. Beautiful and enrapturing and dangerous and terrifying. A mess of contradictions and varied uses. Strange to imagine that the little wavering orange tendrils in Ignis’ black-marble fireplace, that seemed so warm and friendly and harmless, could, in another context, grow into something monstrous. Destructive. Murderous, even.

Did fire have intent? Did it know what it was capable of? Was it a stupid thing to wonder? Noctis couldn’t help but wonder.

People often talked about nature as if it were sentient. Even gendered it—“mother” nature. Described it as something that couldn’t be forced or controlled, something that would, in all likelihood, win out in the end. Yet humans were all about conquering nature, and what form of conquering was greater than controlling?

Then again… when Noctis channelled the forces of nature, was he really the one in control?

“I suppose you’ll be wanting me to drive you home.”

Ignis’ voice broke Noctis out of his furtive reverie. “Are you offering?”

“Are you asking?”

“Can I get a lift home?”

“I suppose so,” Ignis sighed.

Noctis glanced at the fire, then looked to Ignis with a grin.

“How’s your headache?” Ignis asked softly.

Noctis blinked. Had he… told Ignis about the headache? He might have, but he didn’t remember when, if so. “It’s fine,” he said, just as his temples gave a sharp throb. “Or not. Ow.” He lifted a hand to his right temple.

Ignis frowned, setting his empty mug down on the coffee table. “I should really take you to a doctor.”

“Specs, I’m fine. It’s just a headache.” He still couldn’t remember having told Ignis. Hadn’t he sworn to himself not to tell anyone? He was sure he had. He couldn’t remember why, though.

“Perhaps. Or perhaps not. The headache could merely be a symptom.”

“Symptom of what?”

“Well, I’m not a medical professional, so I couldn’t tell you.” Ignis set his empty mug down on the empty-mug table. Wait… something wasn’t right. “How long have you had it?”

“Uhh…” How long _had_ it been? The answer that came to mind was two weeks, but that didn’t seem right. It had been longer than that, right? His head was hurting back when everything was still snowed over, and during that storm. When exactly had that storm been? Back when it wasn’t so cold. Wait, that wasn’t right. That couldn’t be right.

“Noct?”

Either it was Noctis’ imagination, or it was suddenly far too hot in here. He glanced over to the fire, which was still constrained to the fireplace but seemed to burn so brightly that he couldn’t look directly at it—as if the fire within the fireplace was actually a portal to the sun. He looked away, wincing at the pain in his eyes from having tried to look too long, taking deep breaths to try cool himself down internally.

“Are you alright?” Ignis had moved closer, off the couch, crouching on the floor in front of Noctis. He took the half-empty mug out of Noctis’ shaking, sweating hands.

Breathing deeply didn’t seem to be helping at all. Noctis realised too late that the oxygen he was taking in was fanning the flames of the great fire rising up inside him. He feared to speak for fear the flames would fire out of his mouth and douse Ignis’ apartment with the great destructive power of the massless destroyer—fire. Pure energy. He shook his head jerkily.

“You should lie down,” said Ignis, and helped him do so, right there on the couch. He lay back and kept his mouth firmly shut, but then a horrible thought occurred to him: what about his nostrils? His ears? The fire would find some way to escape eventually—energy did that. _Power_ did that. He knew too well the feeling of absorbing too much power at once, and feeling like he was about to explode, and this was similar to that but it wasn’t that because he hadn’t absorbed _anything_ and the fireplace was still a portal to the sun and—

“I’ll get you some water,” Ignis said. A spike of fear shot through Noctis. He didn’t want to be alone. He couldn’t be left alone. He reached out to grab Ignis’ wrist and stop him from leaving, but as he did, a bolt of pain shot through his shoulder and down his left side. He let out an involuntary cry, though somehow none of the fire escaped.

Ignis was by his side again in an instant, smoothing a hand over Noctis’ hair. “Don’t move,” he said, gentle and firm. “You’ll rip the stitches.”

The fire beneath Noctis’ skin seemed to shy away from Ignis’ touch.

“You need to drink something,” Ignis said. “I’ll be right back.”

Then his hand was gone from Noctis’ head, his face gone from his field of view, as he disappeared into to the kitchenette. The heat seared back in. Noctis struggled to kick his legs free of the sheets covering him. The ceiling fan was almost directly above him, but it wasn’t on anywhere near a high enough setting to make much of a difference. Kicking off the sheets at least gave him peace of mind that he wouldn’t inadvertently burn down the Leville by setting the bedspread on fire.

Ignis returned, like he promised he would, and helped Noctis sit up in the bed. “This will help,” he said soothingly, holding a glass of water to Noctis’ lips.

He gulped down the water, feeling the hiss of extinguished flames in every inch of his body, feeling the immediate cooling sensation. No steam poured forth from his mouth or nostrils or ears, which made him a little anxious, but he was glad to no longer be at risk of spontaneous combustion.

His head felt a little clearer by the time he’d inhaled the entire glass (well, not the glass itself, but its contents). He looked around the room: the unmade second bed; someone’s (probably Prompto’s) luggage disembowelled in one corner; something that looked like paperwork on the table. “Where are the other two?” he croaked. His voice sounded and felt like he hadn’t used it in days.

“On a hunt,” Ignis explained. “Funds were bound to start running out eventually.”

Something felt… off. Really, really, wrong. “I don’t understand,” he muttered.

Ignis stared at him for a long moment. “Noct,” he began hesitantly, “do you remember what happened?”

Noctis looked down at himself; shirtless but for the heavy bandages around his chest and left shoulder. He looked towards the window, out across rooftops of Lestallum. He took another look around and realised he had no idea how they’d gotten here. He wasn’t even sure of the last thing he remembered—in fact he… couldn’t really _remember_ anything, per se, he just _knew_ a handful of things, a whole lot of things that he knew had happened and yet he couldn’t place them on any internal, personal timeline of actual, tangible memories. The more he tried to, the more scared he became.

He swallowed hard and looked at Ignis, who—he noticed—had deep rings around his eyes, and his usually pristinely-kept hair looked wilted.

Noctis shook his head. “I don’t remember anything,” he said.

Ignis pursed his lips. “Well,” he said, “we can deal with that later. For now, you should get some more rest.”

Noctis couldn’t really and wasn’t really inclined to argue with that. His entire body felt heavy, but no part more so than his eyelids, which were already drifting shut as Ignis helped him lie down again, pulling the unceremoniously thrown-aside bedsheets back over him.

“If you still don’t remember by the time you wake up,” Ignis murmured through the haze of oncoming sleep, “I’ll tell you everything.”

 

“Noct. Noct! Wakey, wakey, Noct!”

“What?” Noctis grumbled, prying his eyes open. The car had stopped, which he supposed was why—

“We’re here!” Prompto exclaimed, leaning over the back of his seat to grin at Noctis. The other two were just sitting there watching the exchange, not even defending Noctis’ dignity like good retainers were supposed to. Useless.

“Figures,” said Noctis. He could already feel Lestallum’s muggy heat seeping into his pores, silently convincing them to produce twice the normal amount of sweat.

They all got out of the car.

“Remind me why we’re stopping in Lestallum?” Noctis asked as they meandered towards main street. “Weren’t we headed towards… somewhere else?”

“Fuel stop,” Gladio said. “And I don’t mean the car.”

“We’re also in dire need of certain supplies,” Ignis added.

“We’re out of Ebony,” Prompto translated.

Ignis shot him a glare. “Among other things,” he said, “such as elixirs—the last of which was expended, if I recall correctly, on saving your life a few days ago.”

Prompto held up his hands in surrender. “Okay, okay! We need supplies. Geez, touchy.”

“Don’t mind him. He gets cranky when he hasn’t had caffeine,” said Gladio.

Now it was Gladio’s turn to be on the receiving end of Ignis’ glare.

“Wait, so, back up.” Noctis was feeling a little lost. “We’re… getting lunch?”

“Lunch first, then supplies. I’d also like to visit that interesting little spice stall if we have the time,” said Ignis. By now, they were within the throng of the perpetual Lestallum crowd

Noctis looked up at the sun, almost directly above their heads. “Do we even have time to be stopping?” he wondered. “I mean, if we want to get to where we’re supposed to be going before nightfall.”

“We can always stop at a haven,” Gladio suggested.

Prompto groaned. “I just don’t _get_ the thing with you and camping. I don’t get it!”

“What’s to get? I like being outdoors.”

“You like sleeping on the hard ground? Not having access to a shower, or a _toilet_? Oh my god, can we just, like, stay here for the night? Please?” Prompto grabbed Noctis’ arm suddenly. “Noct? Can we?”

“No,” Noctis said. “We need to get to the place.”

“I _know_ , but…”

“If we complete our business here swiftly, we should have no problem reaching our destination before nightfall,” reasoned Ignis.

They headed towards the market, picking up some barbequed meat skewers near the entrance. Rather than trying to stick together in the dense crowd, they agreed to meet back at the market entrance in half an hour’s time. Prompto headed off towards some trinket stall he’d fallen in love with the last time they were in Lestallum; Gladio went off to look at weapons; and Ignis made a bee-line for the spices he’d mentioned earlier.

Noctis didn’t have any particular desire to browse the stalls, so he decided to take a walk around Lestallum while his friends did their own things at the market. As long as he returned to the entrance in a half hour, it should be fine—he wasn’t too big on the crowd, anyway.

He wandered towards the power plant. The crowd there was usually non-existent or close to it, and he liked looking at the glowing blue splinters of meteor shards clustered around the crater walls. He was disappointed to discover that they glowed a little less radiantly today, as if they were too tired to accommodate his lowly mortal whims.

Well, screw them, too. He figured his time was better spent wandering aimlessly through the streets, anyway—which was what he found himself doing, a few minutes later. The residential side of Lestallum made up for its lack of crowds by boasting narrow streets and a labyrinthine layout. Since Noctis wasn’t really paying attention, he quickly found himself lost. He failed to realise such until his phone buzzed in his pocket. A text from Prompto: _where are u? time 2 go._

Oh, right. In his wandering reverie, Noctis had completely forgotten that they were on a tight schedule. He glanced around. Behind him was the stretch of narrow street he’d been walking down; to his right, a short dead-end featuring an overfull (and unpleasantly pungent) trash can; and directly in front of him, the street turned sharply to the left. He set off in that direction.

It was odd calling them ‘streets’, since, by Insomnian standards, they were little more than alleys. But in Lestallum, they comprised the main thoroughfares.

He turned left and found himself back on a main road, the beacon-like Citadel visible in the far distance. The rain had abated, at least, but the sky was still heavily overcast and a massive puddle quivered threateningly just off the kerb Noctis was standing on.

As if wilfully making true on that threat, a car sped by, spraying Noctis’ already sodden coat with a fine mist of dirty street-water.

He sighed and cursed himself for ever thinking it would be a good idea to go for a walk today, even as he begrudgingly set off to the right, down the footpath. He didn’t recognise this part of Insomnia, but he figured if the Citadel was visible, he ought to come across a subway station soon. Or, he would continue to be lost, and someone (probably Ignis) would note his absence and track him down using his phone’s GPS.

So he decided to enjoy the scent of fresh rain on the asphalt while he still had his freedom. It proved a little difficult, with his wet clothes sticking to his body, his wet hair sticking to his face and neck, and the feeling of eyes on his back.

He glanced over his shoulder, doing his best to pass it off as a casual gesture. It was a little difficult to continue to look casual, however, when he noticed the tall figure following several paces behind him, clad in an ankle-length trench coat, face obscured by a strategically-angled umbrella.

Now that he’d noticed his pursuer, he wondered how it had taken him so long. Their footsteps weren’t exactly quiet. He was seriously off today—first he’d gotten lost, now this? Gladio wouldn’t let him hear the end of it.

_If I ever see Gladio again_.

The thought was as insidious as the paranoia that this mysterious figure was following him. Really, there was every likelihood that they were just… walking. On the same street as Noctis, in the same direction.

He walked a little faster.

His pursuer’s footsteps sped up.

Noctis’ breathing sped up. His heartrate sped up.

The street was long and tunnel-like, featureless concrete apartment blocks on either side. It seemed to stretch on forever. There was no one else on the street except for Noctis and his faceless follower.

Coming up on his right, he noticed an alleyway not unlike the one he’d exited a few moments earlier. Trying to look purposeful, he turned into it.

Immediately, he knew he’d made a mistake. The alleyway was a long, grey hallway, curving off into the distance. A flutter of panic made itself known in his throat as he glanced behind him again to see that the figure had followed his turn, had picked up the pace, was gaining on him—

Throwing caution to the wind, Noctis ran for it. Full pelt, he barrelled down the alleyway, hoping against all hope that it led to somewhere other than a dead end. Hoping that the Crownsguard was, this very second, on their way to pick him up after having tracked down his phone’s GPS location.

But then, he almost tripped and faceplanted into the pavement as he remembered: he’d left his phone in his apartment.

Behind him, he heard the growls of hounds, and didn’t dare look back for fear of slowing or tripping and then being caught and ripped to shreds. He didn’t want to know how close his death was, he just leaned forwards and pumped his arms and legs and _urged_ his body to move faster and _willed_ the alleyway to lead him to salvation.

He came skidding to a stop at the inevitable dead end.

_No choice but to fight_.

He whirled around, summoning his sword to a shaking hand. He almost dropped it when he saw what was chasing him: not a coated figure, not some regular hounds. An canine beast prowled towards him, it’s snout at least eight feet above the ground, so large it barely had room to move in the narrow alleyway. A low rumble sounded from deep within its throat. Saliva dripped in great, slimy globs from behind its uneven, oversized incisors.

It was a mutant, and it was out for his blood. Noctis’ sword may as well have been a sewing needle. Nonetheless, he brandished it in front of him as if to frighten the great beast away. His heart was beating so hard it was pushing all the air out of his lungs and he had no voice to speak or scream. Just a body in which to shiver as he waited for the hound to pounce.

As it came within pouncing distance, however, the monster’s ears suddenly pricked up, its beady gaze flicking away from Noctis to stare at a point over his shoulder.

“Noct!”

He whirled around, but couldn’t get his sword up fast enough. The havocfang slammed into him, knocking him flat onto his back. His sword flew out of his hand, and he got a mouthful of the beast’s shaggy hair as he gasped for breath.

Winded and confused, he pushed at the havocfang, but its skeletal form belied its bulk and it was unperturbed by his futile efforts. Its jaws snapped in his face, rancid hot breath triggering a tsunami of nausea, and a flashback to the time he’d come across the rotting corpse of a small rat in the back of his closet.

The snapping stopped as the havocfang’s gnarled teeth found their new homes in his flesh, embedding themselves in his left shoulder, arm, and chest, in emphatically painful style.

If he’d had the breath to, he would have screamed.

He’d been bitten, stabbed, scratched, and clawed too many times to count by now, but the hot and cold sickeningly sour stinging _burning_ that enveloped his entire upper-left side was a completely new shade of agony.

Distantly, he noticed when the havocfang was knocked off him, teeth wrenching out of him, spraying him with his own blood; hot, wet flecks across his face and neck. His friends desperately called his name, their faces looming overhead. The sky was so vast and dark, though, infinitely widening and welcoming him into its black embrace.

 

**GAME OVER**

 

“Aw, man! Not again!”

“Just give up already.”

“Uh-uh, no way. I’ve put _way_ too many hours into this game to let an optional boss ruin my fun. I may not kill him tonight, but with time and persistence, this Wraith Lord is going _down_!”

“Right. If you say so.”

“Just let him think he’s achieving something. Stubbornness isn’t a _strictly_ negative personality trait.”

“Sure, just like talkativeness and hyperactivity. Not strictly negative, but strictly annoying.”

“Well, yes.”

“I’m right here, guys! I can hear you!”

Voices. The tinny audio of a phone speaker, bleep-bloops and swooshes and clashes. An electric hum. The rustling of paper.

Disinfectant. The unique sweet/bitter tang of potions. Fabric softener. Sweat. The faint hint of something savoury—peanut sauce; barbeque.

Warmth. Soft blankets, forgiving pillows. A tightness over his left side, a persistent ache between his ears. A faint itch all over his skin.

The unpleasantly sour, dry taste in his mouth—of un-brushed teeth and too much time spent unconscious.

With some difficulty, he swallowed, and cracked open his eyes. Morning light projected elongated parallelograms across the ceiling, interrupted only by the fan’s low-setting revolutions.

Confusion and understanding fought for dominance in his cerebral cortex. He was sure he remembered and had some faint understanding of what had happened, but something still didn’t seem right.

His body felt both too stiff and too limp to push himself up, but he was strong enough to turn his head and look around the room. Yes—he was quite sure he wasn’t dreaming anymore. His mind had brought him back to the hotel room in Lestallum, and his friends were sitting idly by; Prompto cross-legged on the other bed, tapping away on his phone; Gladio in an armchair, book in hand; and Ignis leaning over the table, scribbling away at something—Noctis couldn’t see what. He looked like he’d showered and changed clothes since the last time Noctis was conscious, which threw a little doubt on whether he was conscious at all.

_No point in thinking that way_ , he told himself.

His friends were so absorbed in their respective pastimes that they didn’t notice Noctis staring at them. He didn’t mind. He quite enjoyed seeing them… relaxed. On the outside, at least. It was possible that they were distracting themselves—successfully distracting themselves from _him_ , and whatever he’d gotten himself into this time.

_Havocfangs_ , he told himself firmly. _You were attacked and poisoned by a havocfang_.

Gladio was the first to notice him, briefly glancing up from his book. He froze as he realised what he’d seen, and met Noctis’ eyes again.

“Noct,” he said.

Prompto’s and Ignis’ heads shot up, and all three of them stared at him.

“Hey,” Noctis said, his voice feeble and scratchy.

His friends converged on him: Gladio helping him sit up, Prompto babbling in his ear about how worried they were and how long it had been (nearly five days). Ignis disappeared into the kitchenette and returned post-haste with a glass of water—which did wonders for the horrible taste in Noctis’ mouth, the painful dryness in his throat, and even the lingering ache in his head.

“Do you remember what happened, now, Noct?” Ignis asked gently, taking the glass from Noctis’ hand once it was empty. He was perched on the bed by Noctis’ feet; Prompto was sat right at Noctis’ side; and Gladio gave him a bit of space by sitting on the edge of the other bed.

Noctis nodded. “I think so. I was… poisoned?”

Ignis nodded gravely. “Yes. It would seem the Empire has learned some new tricks.”

“Huh?”

“Don’t you remember, Noct?” asked Prompto. “We were ambushed by the MTs, except… they were new models. They had these weird claw-swords, remember?”

Noctis stared blankly. Havocfangs. He was sure he remembered havocfangs, not MTs.

“Claw-swords impregnated with a nasty poison,” Gladio added. “It wasn’t pretty.”

“Claw-swords…” Noctis brought his right hand up to the bandages covering his left shoulder. “But… what about the havocfangs?”

“Havocfangs?” Prompto parroted.

“I was sure…” Noctis trailed off. _Was_ he sure? Could he be sure about anything? Could he be sure that this was real?

Could he be sure that anything was real?

“Noct?” Ignis sounded worried. A knot of shame neatly made its home in Noctis’ lower abdomen. He’d been _poisoned_. Probably a hallucinogenic poison. Nothing to start having an existential crisis over.

“It’s nothing,” he said. “It’s just… I dunno. Still a bit woozy, I guess.”

His friends hummed understandingly.

“I’m not surprised,” Gladio murmured. “I’ve never seen anything like that poison before.”

“We ought to be more cautious in the future,” said Ignis. “It’s lucky we didn’t all fall prey to it.”

Prompto let out a strained chuckle. “It’s always you, Noct.”

“Yeah, if you could cut that out, I’d appreciate it,” said Gladio. “Makes me look bad at my job.”

“Maybe you _are_ bad at your job,” said Noctis, with an attempt at a teasing smirk. Gladio just rolled his eyes.

“It makes us all look bad at our jobs,” Ignis said. The knot of shame in Noctis’ gut reasserted itself. “We’re sorry, Noct. This shouldn’t have happened.”

In a stark contrast to a few minutes ago, all three of his friends were now avoiding his gaze, eyes downcast as if they really had something to be ashamed about.

“It’s fine,” said Noctis, tongue stumbling clumsily over the words, “I should be apologising. I’m… reckless.”

One by one, his friends looked up at him again, Ignis and Prompto offering him encouraging smiles. Gladio scoffed and said, “You can say that again.”

Noctis did not say it again. Once was hard enough.

His memory was still of havocfangs and… so much else that didn’t make sense. He figured he might remember what had really happened once he was fully, truly recovered. He hoped he would.

“You should get some more rest,” Ignis suggested. “There’s no hurry.”

“Yeah,” Prompto agreed. “We’ll be here.”

Gladio nodded.

“Okay,” Noctis said uncertainly. “I don’t want to hold us up too much longer, though.”

“Don’t worry about it,” said Gladio. “We’ll set out for the place we’re headed towards once you’re fully recovered.”

“And not a moment sooner,” added Ignis.

“Right…” said Noctis, and though something he couldn’t put his finger on still felt severely wrong, he let his friends get him settled back into the bed. He firmly told himself it was just a lingering side-effect of the Empire’s malicious poison. Nothing more.

Even though he’d done nothing but sleep the past five days, he was still so weak that as soon as he closed his eyes, his consciousness switched off.

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, so... this was an exercise in putting fingers to keys with no idea in mind and just writing. It ended up being really self-indulgent, not just because of the hurt Noct, but in a more literary way, I guess. It feels pretentious to say that, but like... a lot of the wordplay (much of it offhanded), and some of the descriptions. Very, very self-indulgent. In more ways than one, I threw caution to the wind with this fic. And it was it was fun! Fanfiction is such a great playground. 
> 
> I'd love to hear what you think! Especially if you have any theories about what's really going on, at any point. Other than that, you can find me on the [tumbling machine](https://voxanonymi.tumblr.com/) and I'll probably be back here soon enough. I have a lot of ideas on the list, and I still haven't played the new content because I have to play through the full game (because windows edition) to get to it, which has been slow-going for many reasons. I'll get there!


End file.
